


Train Wreck

by IncandescentAntelope



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Angst, Angst and Feels, Anxiety, Anxiety Attacks, Booty Calls, Butt Plugs, Casual Sex, Character's Name Spelled as Viktor, Drinking, Flashbacks, Hotel Sex, I wrote parts of this while drunk oops, Katsuki Yuuri in Lingerie, M/M, Miscommunication, Mutual Pining, POV Multiple, Porn With Plot, Rimming, Sugar Daddy, Swearing, Unhappy Ending, dubiously obtained consent via Phichit as proxy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-02
Updated: 2018-11-02
Packaged: 2019-08-11 04:59:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,969
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16469231
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/IncandescentAntelope/pseuds/IncandescentAntelope
Summary: Katsuki Yuuri and Viktor Nikiforov have found themselves tangled in a mess of a relationship; neither one can say how they feel.What better way to force your idol to notice you than to make him spend obscene amounts of money on you? On nice clothing and lingerie? Hotel suites and first-class seats? To make him fall apart with the moan of his name? Right? If there was a better way, Yuuri didn’t care what it was. He rather liked his way better. Maybe.





	Train Wreck

**Author's Note:**

> Title lifted from the song of the same name by James Arthur. 
> 
>  
> 
> [Yuuri's Free](https://youtu.be/WzMDI2pTcOc)  
> [Viktor's Exhibition](https://youtu.be/W1UNDLRsF8M)  
> 

Yuuri’s phone rang on the barrier, pulling him out of his cooldown laps. He looked at the clock on the wall. It was nearly midnight, and he was alone. Yuuko had trusted him with a key to Ice Castle, so long as he locked up after he was done. 

He skated his way to the barrier, affording himself one (1) hockey stop in the privacy of his solo practice. He laughed at himself for being afraid someone might catch him in the moment; flashbacks of grueling conditioning practices as punishment back in Detroit usually kept him from even considering it. 

His phone was still ringing with a call. The ringtone he had specially set for _him_.

_**Incoming call from VN** _

He picked the phone up quickly, settling into the confident facade he usually held in their rendezvous.

“Hello?” he fought to keep his voice low and demure. 

“ _Hello, milyy. Are you busy tonight?_ ” The Russian accent crooned through the tinny speaker of his cell phone. 

“Mmmm, no. Just finishing up a practice. Why?” He asked innocently. He knew the man loved when he played at innocence.

“ _I’m about an hour out of Fukuoka. Can I trouble you to meet me at the airport?_ ” 

“But that’s so far. The train ride is so long. And it’s already so late…” He whined, playing the part flawlessly. 

“ _Oh, zolotse, I promise I’ll make it worth your while._ ” the voice purred around his favorite Russian pet name. “ _I’ll have a car pick you up._ ” Yuuri knew he would, too. The same car every time. A sleek black sedan with dark tinted windows.

“Okay.” He replied simply, feeling the arousal building already. 

“ _Excellent. Wear something nice for me, да?_ ” 

“What color?” He had sent Yuuri a few new ‘outfits’ since they last met. They were all gorgeous, designer brands. Yuuri knew better than to ask how much he had spent, but he knew from the names that they were ridiculously expensive for the tiny amount of actual fabric the ‘clothing’ had. 

“ _Hmm. How about that delicious red number I sent?_ ” Yuuri imagined the man relaxed in his first-class airline seat, a pale, slender finger pressed to his lips in thoughtful consideration.

“I can make that happen.” Yuuri said nonchalantly as he skated off the ice and began pulling his skates off, tucking his phone between his ear and his shoulder.

“ _Mmmmmn, I’m already thinking about you, darling._ ” the Russian moaned into his ear, drawing a shaky breath from Yuuri's chest. “ _Oh? Are you thinking of me too? Of all the sinful things I have planned for you tonight_?”

Yuuri exhaled slowly and shakily as he wiped the icy slush off his blades.

“Mmmhmmm-” was all he could muster under his arousal. He bit his cheek as he stuffed his skates into his backpack, ran into the office, and flipped all the breakers, plunging the rink into darkness.

“ _Oh, darling. I can’t wait to see you again. I’ll let you go. See you in an hour._ ” 

“See you in an hour.” Yuuri replied quietly, ending the call before the Russian could keep purring such sin into his ears and get him too worked up for the run home. He turned on his phone’s flashlight and ducked out into the night, locking the door behind him.

…

“Hi Riza, I’d like to arrange for a car.” Viktor said in a hushed voice, making the call from a lavatory. Rules be damned. He could make a call if he needed to. They knew who he was. He had given the hostess an autograph. He kept his English deliberately slow; his contact at the rental agency wasn’t fluent in English quite yet. He had been playing this song and dance with the Japanese man for almost a year and he still hadn’t learned the language.

“ _Of course, Nikiforov-sama. Location of pick-up and drop off?_ ” She asked carefully. She was definitely improving. 

“Pick-up at Yutopia in Hasetsu, Kyushu. Drop off at Fukuoka Airport, please.” Viktor provided as he shifted uncomfortably. He was still 45 minutes from landing and he was already getting hard in his trousers at the thought of Yuuri in the lingerie set he’d sent.

“ _Do you have a preference of vehicle, sir?_ ” She asked absently, surely a routine question on the list. 

“Black sedan, tinted windows. The darker the better. No older than 2015. European if you have it.” He said, prattling his usual description. Yuuri would be anticipating something particular. Viktor always sent the same kind of car. 

“ _Yes sir. A car will be dispatched and arrive in 15 minutes or less_.”

“Thank you. Charge it to my account.”

“ _Will do, Nikiforov-sama. Thank you for your continued business._ ”

“Thank you, Riza.” He ended the call and exited the tiny airplane bathroom, meeting a very unhappy looking gentleman tapping his foot. He smiled apologetically and made his way back to his seat and texted Yuuri, letting him know the car would be arriving shortly. He laid his head back against the plush fabric with a heavy sigh. 

He hadn’t been able to forget about Katsuki Yuuri since their last rendezvous, wherein Yuuri had made him come so hard he saw stars three times in one night (a feat he thought truly impossible). 

It all started at that banquet in Sochi. Another hollow victory. Another false smile. More fawning fans and schmoozing sponsors. It was all so tiresome, and the champagne was terrible. Until Yuuri caught his eye and swaggered his way, the flush of multiple glasses of champagne dancing across his cheeks and down his throat. Blue glasses askew, tie loosened and shirt partially untucked. The Japanese skater was drunk.

“You- you’re _Viktor_. Think you’re so hot up there, all the way up at the top of the world.” He drawled, jabbing a finger square between Viktor’s pecs, almost dipping between the buttons and touching his bare chest. He caught Viktor off-guard, interrupting his serene, camera-ready facade.

“Perhaps it’s because I know I’m hot.” He said simply, knowing it was true. Viktor knew he was attractive, all sharp lines and graceful features. He had seen his reflection, after all.

“I'm hot too. Hold this.” The man shoved his champagne glass into Viktor's hand as he tried to pull his tie off, getting caught on his glasses, which he took off and threw into the punch bowl. The tie got stuck around his ears. He gave up trying to take it off and opted for removing his shirt instead, throwing it on the ground after he wormed his way out of it. He snatched his drink back and guzzled the rest of it faster than Viktor had ever seen _anyone_ drink champagne, and he had shared more than a few bottles with Chris. Chris, by the way, was presently pole dancing, much to the dismay of poor Yuri Plisetsky, who was nearly hissing at the Swiss man.

“Dance with me.” Yuuri had demanded. Not asked. Demanded.

And Viktor was intrigued. The Kazakhstani skater had commandeered the DJ booth and was spinning some early 2000’s pop, a slow and dirty beat. Yuuri pulled him into the fray of writhing skaters and their dates, a pulsing, breathing mass of horny athletes.

Yuuri had wrapped himself around him entirely, the heat of his body against the thick fabric of Viktor's designer suit nearly smothering him. Soon enough, Viktor had lost his tie and Yuuri had somehow lost his pants, grinding against Viktor's outstretched leg like it was his sole purpose in life. Viktor could hear his ragged breath and feel the bulge of his erection against his thigh. Yuuri grabbed him by the lapels of his jacket and pulled him down to his level, and whispered in his ear.

“Take me _*hic*_ to your room, Viktorr _rrrru_ ~” the boy moaned, teasingly groping at the tent of Viktor's pants, eyes widening at the size of it in his hand. “Now.” He added.

“You're sure? You're pretty drunk… I don't want to-to take advantage of you or anything…” Viktor didn't want him to say no. He just didn't want Yuuri to regret this in the morning. 

“Yep.” Yuuri said, popping his 'p'. “Ask my friend Phichit. I told him we'd be busy fucking _allllllllllll_ night before I even started drinking.” Yuuri pointed toward the bar, where the Thai skater was chatting with Chris, and getting a little handsy. Phichit saw Viktor's questioning look and gave him a thumbs up. This was definitely not the kind of consent he usually received from partners. “God, you're so annoyingly responsible. Just take me upstairs and _fuck me, Viktor_.” Yuuri's voice dropped into a dark timbre, almost a threat. He swallowed thickly.

“Okay.” Viktor finally replied, pulling a glass of champagne off a passing tray and throwing it back.

“Then let's go.” Yuuri said matter-of-factly and pulled him out of the banquet hall and into the hallway toward the elevators. 

Viktor’s soul left his body when he finally slid into the tightness of the younger man’s ass, and again when Yuuri screamed his name so loud they received a noise complaint. Yuuri took him for an exhausting double-round night, finally collapsing in exhaustion as the clock on the bedside table read 4:12 AM. Viktor didn’t remember falling asleep.

He woke to an empty bed and sore thighs, hickeys marking the long column of his neck and red scratches lining the expanse of his back. A note on hotel stationery read in neat handwriting,

_Do you see me now, Viktor?_

_Katsuki Yuuri  
(xxx)-xxx-xxxx_

…

After the fastest shower he had ever taken, Yuuri toweled off and slicked his hair back just right. He stepped into the sinfully thin boyshorts, red and lacy, satiny ribbon laying against his hips on either side in a lattice pattern, ending in small bows that stood out against his creamy skin. He adjusted himself in the panties, inspecting his ass in the full-length mirror. He could _almost_ see the gleam of a gold plug nestled between his cheeks, a massive clear gem set into the flared base of it. One of his many _many_ gifts. The panties had a heart-shaped hole in the back, a large red bow laying at the crest of his rear. Yuuri loved the way the fabric looked against his skin, framing his hole like an offering.

He pulled the garter belt up around his waist and cinched it tight, clipping the garter straps into the sheer red stockings that came with the ensemble. The belt was gorgeous like the shorts, red and lacy with a satin backing that sat smooth against his stomach. He admired the way it pulled his waist in, creating the illusion of an hourglass shape of his lean body, toned as it was in the height of the season. 

Next was the harness, which he had told him had been specially tailored for him, with his measurements. A sheer bralette with red lace roses covering his nipples and barely anything else. The straps of it ran blood-red lines across his chest and upper back, and he did his best to lay them all flat, to wear it properly. He savored the thought of his reaction. Would he curse in Russian again? Would he suck in a long breath as he crossed the floor? Or would he not mince words and just dive right in? Toss him over his shoulder and take him to bed? Take him against the wall? On the floor? In front of a window overlooking the city? His cock began to swell at the possibilities, the coil of arousal drawing tighter and tighter. 

His phone vibrated, pulling him away from the racing thoughts. 

_**VN** (sent 00:14) The usual car will be arriving in 15 minutes. _  
_**VN** (sent 00:14) May I have a sneak peek of your outfit, zolotse?_

It sent another pang of arousal to Yuuri’s stomach and cock, a small, damp patch of precome wetting the lace of his shorts. He snapped a closeup photo of the belt laying across his stomach, landing just above his belly button.

_**me** (sent 00:15) sneakpeek.jpg _  
_**me** (sent 00:15) getting impatient?_

Yuuri chuckled to himself. When had he turned into the kind of man to do this? To wait for the beck and call of what was essentially an international booty call slash sugar daddy?

_**VN** (sent 00:16) It's been a while. Of course I'm impatient._

It was probably when he got drunk in Sochi and propositioned Viktor Nikiforov, had the best sex of his life, ditched in the middle of the night and left the man with nothing but hickeys and his phone number.

Yeah. 

That was probably it. 

But what better way to force your idol to notice you than to make him spend obscene amounts of money on you? On nice clothing and lingerie? Hotel suites and first-class seats? To make him fall apart with the moan of his name?

_Right?_

If there was a better way, Yuuri didn’t care what it was. He rather liked his way better. 

Maybe.

He smoothed his hair again, threw some toiletries and spare clothing into his backpack and pulled a pair of yoga pants on over the lingerie, completing the look with a oversized sweater that he had left behind the last time. He crept out the back door of the onsen without raising suspicion, texting Mari that he would be out for the night. 

The car was waiting for him just beyond the gates, lights off, as requested. 

Yuuri stepped into the car and slid across the dark leather seats, greeting his usual driver. Viktor always sent the same people. Confidentiality was important to both of them. He absently scrolled on his phone, trying to calm the nerves that almost always surfaced before they met. It was going to be a long drive if he was panicking the entire time. He pulled the earbuds out of his backpack and listened to the message he had asked Viktor to record for him. The timbre of his voice always brought him back down to earth. 

“ _Hello, my sweet, my darling, my zolotse. There’s nothing to worry about now. I’m here. And I’m just going to talk about you for a little while. About my lovely, lovely Yuuri. My Yura. My cherry blossom. You are truly the most beautiful man I’ve seen in my life. And I’ll spare no expense to see that you believe that about yourself too…_ ” Viktor’s warm accent filled his ears and numbed the panic. He relaxed again, taking deep breaths as Viktor’s voice counted him through. “ _Ready to breathe with me? Alright. Breathe in through your nose. In, one, two, three, four, five, six. Breathe out through your mouth. Out, one, two, three, four, five, six. Again._ ” It was his own personal meditation tape. 

But he and Viktor weren’t dating.

Definitely not. 

Just meeting up to fuck the frustration out of their bodies. To spend lonely nights tangled up in familiar flesh, wringing orgasms from each other between competitions. On the ice, they were fierce competitors, both in contention for the Grand Prix Final in Barcelona. Behind closed doors, they called each other things like 'darling' and 'beautiful' and 'baby' and 'sweetheart'. Behind closed doors... Yuuri was Viktor's, and Viktor was Yuuri's.

But they weren’t dating. 

They weren’t “together”.

Just… fucking.

 _Right_?

…

The plane had landed and Viktor felt a certain peace about being in the same timezone as Yuuri. Something about being away chafed at his mind like an itch he couldn’t scratch. He let Yuuri know he had landed and was on his way to baggage claim. (He didn’t have any luggage. Just a small carry-on.) Yuuri replied.

_**KY** (sent 01:16) driver says 10 minutes_

Ten minutes in a now-familiar airport terminal that smelled like bleach and old leather. He sat down on an uncomfortable bench and raked long fingers through his hair. He pushed away the tightness in his chest again. 

He shoved back the thoughts.

The question.

_What are we, Yuuri?_

He bit back another exhausted sigh and rubbed the sleep from his eyes. He had flown halfway around the world just to see him. Thirteen hours. For one night. But Yuuri deserved to see him at his best. Camera-ready Viktor. Fresh off a victory Viktor. Not this weak, world-weary, aimless and lonely Vitya.

No. Never.

He checked his watch. Yuuri's car should be arriving any moment. He took a few deep breaths to center himself. To think about what Yuuri was wearing. To think about the night they were going to have. 

Don't think about Barcelona. 

Don't. Just don't. 

Yuuri. Think about Yuuri. And his beautiful skating. The way he made music with his body. The way he had channeled all of his sexual energy into one routine, in a costume vaguely resembling one of his from his early days. A subtle call of seduction. Viktor dreamed it was a confession. _Don’t think about how hard it might be to watch him lose again._

His phone buzzed. 

_**KY** (sent 1:27) don't keep me waiting_

He shot out of his seat and made a dash for the doors. A black sedan waited, running. Lights off. He opened the back door and didn't think. He just handed the driver the address and pulled Yuuri into a blistering kiss. They were off, and Yuuri was already mewling under his touch. Long fingers trailed under a familiar sweater, finding the kiss of lace and satin.

“I've missed you, _milyy_.” Viktor breathed hotly against Yuuri's lips.

“I missed you too.” He replied simply, ragged breaths too heavy for endearments. He climbed into Viktor's lap and draped himself over his chest, twining his arms around his broad shoulders. “Where are we staying tonight?”

“I hate to say it, but one of those damn Hyatts. I'm sorry. It's the only place with a penthouse available on short notice.” Viktor apologized, remembering Yuuri's distaste for the chain hotels.

“I. Don't. Care. Where. You. Fuck. Me.” Yuuri punctuated each word with a heated kiss to his jawline, sucking purple and red marks into the pale flesh there. “As long as you _fuck_ me.” He added before capturing his lips again, and rolling his hips against Viktor's, moaning wantonly against his mouth with no regard for the driver. Viktor didn't ask about his sudden change in opinion. The desperation was a little hot.

Viktor's moans joined Yuuri's and he began to palm his cock under his trousers, desperately wishing he could just rip those sinfully tight yoga pants off and sink in right there, instead of grinding in the back seat like horny teenagers. But he would settle for running curious fingers under the lace wrapped around his chest, snapping the straps as he went, savoring the squeaks of surprised pain it pulled from Yuuri's beautiful mouth. 

“Nikiforov-sama, we have arrived.” The driver said in broken English. He hadn't noticed the car had stopped moving.

“Thank you.” Viktor huffed politely, despite the hoarseness of his voice. He opened his door and slid a ten thousand yen note into the driver's hand as he walked around the car to get Yuuri's door as well.

A soft hand met his, the other grabbed his tie and pulled him in for another searing kiss.

Yuuri walked with him, arm in arm, through the tacky gilded doors. After a short, very curt conversation with the receptionist, they had their key and Yuuri had fallen to his knees in the elevator, moaning around Viktor's cock between his lips.

“ _Fuck, zolotse_. You're too good at this.” Viktor groaned, running his hands through Yuuri's gelled hair and thrusting into the heat of his mouth gently.

The door dinged and they swiped their card in the elevator’s control panel, allowing them into the penthouse. Two bags fell to the floor, a suit coat, a silk tie, a cashmere sweater, a crisp Valentino shirt, now wrinkled and discarded.

Viktor dropped to his knees and gently rolled down Yuuri's yoga pants, slowly revealing the garter belt, panties and stockings. The Russian growled, low in his chest and dropped his trousers, allowing his cock to bob freely in the open air of the suite, which he had barely inspected on the website before booking it. It didn't matter in the grand scheme of things. He was with Yuuri. And Yuuri was wrapped in his arms, moaning _his_ name. The decor didn't matter. 

“You look good enough to eat, _solnyshko_.” Viktor moaned as Yuuri wrapped his arms and legs around him like an octopus.

“Then _eat me_.” Yuuri moaned in kind.

Viktor carried him into the bedroom, tossing him easily into the middle of the massive expanse of a mattress. He landed with a gentle peal of laughter and the Russian crawled between his legs. He easily flipped Yuuri to position him ass-up, and gently worked the heavy golden plug out of his hole.

He dove right in, licking and sucking at the tight furled muscle, whining moans falling off Yuuri's lips like a prayer. 

“V-Viktor, fuck _yesyesyes~_ There, again. Yesssss, _fuck, fuck, fuck_. Fingers.” Viktor hurried to comply, pulling the bottle of lube out of his carry on. More keening moans fell off his lips as Viktor stretched him open, two fingers sliding into his already loosened hole. 

Viktor dipped his fingers under the lace of his panties, groping for handfuls of soft flesh as he slid a third finger in, scissoring gently. 

“Fuck me, _please. Now_.” Yuuri gasped, shivering with want. 

“Yuuri, you haven't had much preparation, I-”

“Just shut up and fuck me. Now.” Yuuri barked. It sounded wrong. It sounded... off. It gnawed at Viktor as he rolled on the condom, slicked himself up and pushed in, drinking the high-pitched cries of the Japanese man below him. He sank in to the root, feeling the soft fabric of the boyshorts rub against his pelvis with every stroke. 

His ears perked up at a quiet sniff disguised in a moan. 

“Yuuri?” He slowed his pace.

“It's nothing. Just… keep going. Please. _I need it_.” His voice was shaky, unsure. 

“Are you absolutely certain, _zolotse_?” Viktor asked gently. His heart throbbed at the squeaky cry that wrenched itself from Yuuri's chest. 

“ _No_.”

…

He hated himself for losing the fight against his fear that night. That he had ruined the moment for both of them.

“I'm so sorry… I just…” his voice didn't sound like his own voice, it sounded far-off and mild, timid. Afraid. Viktor had stripped him out of the lingerie and sat him in the massive jacuzzi tub, filling it with jasmine and bergamot oils, just like he had told Viktor he liked.

The rumbling of the jets was the only noise save for Yuuri's ugly sniffling. He was leaned with his back against Viktor's chest, bracketed by long, muscular legs.

“Yuuri, it's alright. You know that. You know it doesn't always have to be just sex.” The Russian murmured into the crook of his neck.

“ _But doesn't it though? Isn't it always just going to be sex_?” He cried in Japanese, knowing full well that Viktor didn't understand the language. “ _When will this be more than-_ ”

“Yuuri, English please.” Viktor interrupted.

“ _No_.” He bit.

“Yuuri, please. This isn't going to work if we can't communicate and you know it. I don't speak Japanese and you don't speak Russian. We need to meet on common ground.”

“ _Yes I do. I have been learning to surprise you._ ” Yuuri said in Viktor's tongue, shakily. “What's your excuse?” He snarled.

“Yuuri… I…” Viktor began, trailing off.

“That's what I thought.” The tears came again. “I'm sorry. I didn't mean to snap. I just… I have a lot on my mind tonight.” Yuuri's voice betrayed him, squeaking like a teenager's. Viktor's arms tightened around him.

“I'm sorry I haven't learned much Japanese yet. I can say a few phrases, if you’d like to critique my pronunciation.” Viktor offered, his breath tickling the nape of Yuuri's neck. He hummed softly and Viktor began. 

“ _Watashinonamaeha_ Viktor Nikiforov _desu_.”

“Not bad. Make sure you drop the 'u’ at the end. It's mostly silent. Like _'des’_ with a tiny hint of a 'u’.” Yuuri instructed, biting back a shiver at the way the language sounded in Viktor's mouth, tinted with the dark roughness of his Russian accent.

“ _Watashi wa figyuasukētādesu_.” Viktor said, anglicizing the English loan words a touch too heavily.

“Your _‘des’_ was better. And really? Huh, I didn't know you were a figure skater.” Yuuri joked sarcastically, poking Viktor's bent knee beside his. 

“ _Keshō-shitsu wa dokodesu ka_?” Viktor said, his pronunciation a bit surer than the other phrases. Yuuri snorted a laugh. 

“I suppose that's an important one to know.” He said between giggles.

“I spend a lot of time abroad, Yuuri. I know how to ask where the restroom is in almost 20 languages.” Viktor provided nonchalantly.

“I just use Google translate.” Yuuri said, gesturing back to the counter where his phone was.

“Damn millennials, always on their phones.” Viktor replied in a thick Russian accent, voice wavering like he was impersonating an old man.

“What year were you born, Viktor?” Yuuri turned slightly as the Russian gasped at the question.

“My gods, why would you ask such a terrible question of me?” 

“For science. What year were you born?” Yuuri already knew the answer to the question. 1988. Of course he knew. He had only just recently taken down his posters of the man, unable to look them in the eyes after all the unspeakable things he had done with their real-life counterpart. He'd been following Viktor's career since they were both children. 

Of course he knew his birth year. 

And his shoe size. 

And his preferences in condom brands.

Viktor sighed deeply and said, “1990.”.

“Liar.” Yuuri snapped back without thinking.

“Oh? I'm lying am I? And how do you know that, _zolotse_?”

_Shit._

“Um, you just sound like you're lying. That's all.” Yuuri unconvincingly recovered, glad that he was turned away from Viktor in that moment. 

“Well, you got me. I was born in 1988.” Viktor said quietly.

“You know the cutoff for the millennial generation is 1985?” Yuuri asked sweetly, reveling as he landed the blow.

“Oh, Yuuri. My heart. My old man heart. It's broken. _I'm a millennial_ …” he sighed dramatically. Yuuri laughed. 

“I think you'll survive.” He caught a glance of the pile of red lingerie on the floor. Of his failure. Viktor had flown all the way to Japan from Yuuri didn't even know where. He had flown in at the ass crack of dawn to see him. To fuck him. And he had ruined it. Because his brain didn't work right. Because he couldn't control his own fucking thoughts.

Because he loved Viktor.

But Viktor couldn't possibly love him back. Not Yuuri. Not the snivelling, anxious mess, the wreck of a person incapable of keeping emotion separate from touch. Not Yuuri.

His spine began to curl, his shoulders shaking.

“Hey, _heyheyhey_ , Yuuri? What's wrong?” Viktor asked in a worried voice, wrapping long fingers around his shoulders and pulling him back to curl into his chest. Yuuri felt his already meager control slipping. He was falling. His heart was racing, his pulse thundered in his ears. He had told Viktor the signs. But this wasn't like his other episodes. This was too much. Too intense. Too much deafening sound and the room began to spin. He didn’t want Viktor to see this. He never meant for Viktor to see him like this. “Yuuri, breathe with me. Ready? In. One, two, three, four, five, six. Out. One, two, three, four, five, six. Repeat. Yuuri, breathe for me.” He could hear Viktor's words distantly, and he was clawing at the darkness around his eyes to climb back up into his own brain, but the panic was swirling and pulling him in deeper.

He heard Viktor's voice in his head the way he heard it in interviews, cold and distant, _'I came all this way and I have to pull you out of a panic attack? God. I just needed to get laid. You're weak, Yuuri.’_ Panic seized his chest. He could hardly breathe, just tiny hitched things that ached in his ribcage. He tried to grab Viktor's hand, finding his limbs heavy like lead. 

Tears rolled down his cheeks as his vision blurred. 

“YUURI. _Nononononononono_ -” it sounded like he was underwater. He felt Viktor pull the drain plug, the jets ceased. He shifted, reaching up to the counter.

“Hello? Mari? You're Yuuri's sister, yes?”

_He was calling Mari? No… then people would know…_

“Yes. Yes I am. He's having a panic attack and I don't think he's breathing. What do I need to do?”

_People can’t know what I did…_

“Inhaler? Okay, and a Prozac? In his wallet. Okay. Thank you.” 

Everything faded to black and radio static filled his ears.

…

“ _Shitshitshitshitshit_ , Yuuuuuuuri, can you hear me?” Viktor cried, trying to hold back the tears. He was fucking terrified. He knew Yuuri's anxiety was bad, but not this bad. Had he not taken his medication that morning?

He pulled Yuuri out of the bath, checking his pulse. Still beating. A finger under his nose. Still breathing, but not enough. He wrapped Yuuri in a hotel robe to keep him warm and carried him into the bedroom and upended his bag onto the floor, finding his wallet and the inhaler.

He guided the plastic of it into his mouth and Yuuri opened his eyes lazily, slowly nodding. Viktor pressed the button and Yuuri tried his best to breathe deeply, his chest shuddering with the effort. 

“Just one shot?” Viktor asked, and Yuuri nodded weakly.

He pulled the small pill out of its bag and placed it in Yuuri's mouth, helping him swallow a gulp of water to wash it down. 

“Hold my hand? Squeeze if something's wrong, okay?” Viktor asked, crawling into bed beside him. Yuuri intertwined his fingers with Viktor's, a light grip. Tired grip.

“I'm sorry.” He whispered hoarsely, tears beading in his raven eyelashes.

“No, don't you apologize. That's not how this works.” Viktor breathed in relief with the sound of Yuuri's voice. He cursed his inability to fully understand Yuuri's anxiety, that he doesn't know what Yuuri has to face. He would trade every victory, every medal, everything to take the panic away. Even just to take it on himself. He felt the hand not holding Yuuri's tighten into a painful fist, short-cropped fingernails biting into the heel of his palm. 

He'd give anything to be the one who knew what to do. To be the one people called if they were apart. To be more than… _this_. He bit his lower lip against the question.

_What are we?_

He felt Yuuri's hand squeeze tighter and he shot upright, ready.

“V-Viktor?” His voice came weak, scared.

“Yes, Yuuri? Are you okay?” He felt his heart leap into his throat.

“Can you call for a car? I… I want to go home.” 

And it fell to his feet. 

“Of course. Anything for you, sweetheart.” He bit back the ugly swell of emotion threatening to surge forward, forcing down the urge to say no, to force him to stay. To tell him the three words caught in his throat, about the mass of tangled emotions keeping him in the terrible cycle of seeking Yuuri out with no regard for his schedule or his personal life. 

But he couldn't bring the words to fall out of his mouth.

Maybe Yuuri was seeing someone. Or maybe he wanted to, but Viktor was in the way. How selfish to wish he could keep being in the way. It made him ill.

Yuuri didn't love him. 

They were just fucking. How foolish to think they might be more. He stood from the bed and called his contact at the rental company. He heard the quiet sounds of Yuuri dressing and re-packing his bag. He mumbled a soft apology for dumping it all on the floor. Yuuri waved him off without a word. And without looking up. That was what stung the most. 

They didn't share another word until the car arrived, and Viktor said goodbye as he pulled the door open, laid a gentle kiss against his lips. He didn't slide in next to Yuuri. He was going to stay a little while longer before heading back to Saint Petersburg. His head was in no state to leave anyway. He couldn't leave. 

Not without giving Yuuri the chance to come back. If he wanted.

_If._

The question remained unasked, a pile of red lace remained rumpled on the bathroom floor.

That was the last time they kissed.

…

Yuuri let the tears fall freely as they pulled away from the hotel. He couldn't keep Viktor so selfishly anymore. He couldn't keep letting him drop everything just for him. Not after tonight. Not after not even getting off. Not after pulling him out of the worst panic attack he'd had in years. It surpassed even the post-Sochi attack. The one that had him hiding in the restroom, calling his mother with shaking hands, apologizing for his failure, unable to breathe or think. And Plisetsky's words rang true.

There wasn't room for both of them on the world's stage. 

He decided then, as yellow streetlights passed in hypnotic rhythm, American pop on the radio, he would retire after Barcelona. After his goodbye. 

The runup to the final had Yuuri stuffing the gifts into boxes, ignoring texts and calls. Practicing sunup to sundown with his phone on airplane mode and collapsing with exhaustion between. Costume fittings for the last-minute change in his Free. He'd choreographed it that night, that last night. Instead of sleeping. Instead of letting the thoughts take him away again. He channeled it all into a new program.

When the day of the Free Programs came, his chances looked good. Leroy had choked, leaving his only serious competitors as Altin, Plisetsky and Viktor. But he didn't focus on the competition. He hadn’t watched their programs. He was last on the ice.

He focused his breath as he took the ice in the new costume, a beautiful, billowing yellow chiffon top with simple black trousers. Under the spotlights it looked to be made of pure sunlight, glittering with golden thread woven into the yellow. The top clung to his waist and shoulders, the neckline dipping almost to his belly button and mirroring on the back, stopping just centimeters above the swell of his ass. The fluttering sleeves of his shirt floated with him as if he was underwater as the music rang out, the thudding beat paired with a woman's voice. 

_Heaven can’t help me now,_  
_Nothing lasts forever._

This was his goodbye. To the ice, to the competition, and to Viktor. His goodbye and his confession in one. He spun into his triple-double-triple Salchow perfectly, followed by a step sequence modified from his original Free. The music slowed as Yuuri made a long circle of the ice, stretching his arms languidly, feeling his throat catch with tears and made a stop in the center of the ice, pausing for a moment while the words rang out,

_Say you'll see me again even if it's just pretend._

He launched off his toe pick and covered the length of the ice in moments, wide, sweeping strokes of his arms as he ran into and through a flawless quad flip, the move he’d been practicing until his feet bled and his thighs quaked. The move that was utterly, completely Viktor’s.

The tears ran down his cheeks without stopping. The crowd roared and leapt to its feet as the program wound down, Yuuri slowing and ending center-ice, two hands over his heart, eyes to the polished black of his skates. He heard the screaming, the clapping. His eyes met the table of judges and he bowed lowly, making a slow circle and picked a few of the roses and stuffed toys tossed onto the ice, waving with a painted smile. 

He had to squint at the score from the Kiss-and-Cry. He had shattered Viktor's record.

_He had won._

…

The silver weighed heavily around his neck. Although, he was glad it had been Yuuri to take the gold from him. He deserved the win. His technical score was through the roof and his presentation was fucking flawless, but the silver meant something else too and Viktor knew it. A memory stirred.

_Viktor pulled out and collapsed boneless to the bed next to Yuuri, chest heaving and silver fringe sticking to his forehead._

_“Wow.” he gasped raggedly, his lungs aching from the exertion._

_“I think I’m gonna retire.” It came out of nowhere. No prompting. They didn’t discuss skating while they were together._

_“What?" Viktor sprang up and rounded the bed, coming to sit in the space Yuuri's curved spine created. "Yuuri, you can’t! You have so much more career in front of you! Why?” Viktor coughed at the sudden outburst, his throat protesting the words, the very idea of Yuuri retiring before he did. He was too young. He had too much potential._

_“Because I’m chasing an unattainable goal. And I’m tired of chasing something I’ll never be able to achieve.” Yuuri said simply, rolling onto his back, stretching an arm out in front of him and grasping at the empty air. Viktor didn’t have to guess at what Yuuri was leaving unsaid._

_“Nothing is unattainable, Yuuri.” He opted to say, trying to move on. He knew that he meant him._

_“So says Viktor Nikiforov, glittering god of the skating world. Of course nothing’s unattainable for you. You can have anything you want on a gilded platter with the snap of your fingers.” He huffed and sat up, wandering into the bathroom and locking the door behind him._

Viktor understood what he meant. The frustration. He could see it in his eyes. The transformation from his Yuuri, the one of soft words and panic attacks and saved folders of puppy videos on his laptop, to Katsuki Yuuri, Japan’s Ace, a steely-eyed competitor that didn’t fuck around, who didn't stay for small talk. The eyes that had morphed from warm, chocolatey affection and bliss to the black stare of competition mode, with teasing glances of raw, unfiltered emotion on the ice. He couldn’t keep bouncing between his selves. 

That was what the silver medal meant. 

Yuuri had done it, accomplished his unattainable goal.

He had defeated Viktor.

…

Yuuri smiled placidly for the medal ceremony, avoiding the glares from Plisetsky on the bronze platform to his left and very specifically avoiding the thought of Viktor’s silver hair to his right. They posed for the official photos, stepping off the podium and posing for the casual photo, Yuuri biting back the urge to throw his arms around Viktor as he wrapped an arm around his waist and pulling him in for the photo. Yuuri smiled and put up two fingers in a peace sign with his medal in the other hand.

The photographers scattered and made for the press room, Yuuri taking off for the locker room and changing in record time, tossing his skates into his backpack and making a dead sprint for the press room too. He slipped past security with a flash of his badge and forced the fear back, calmly walking up to the empty stage by himself. He heard questioning sounds from reporters and the click of cameras being set to record. 

Yuuri didn’t really remember what he said to the press that night. But when he left from the arena to the airport without going to the banquet, and boarding the plane without saying goodbye, it felt final. 

Like it might truly be the end.

…

Viktor threw together his exhibition skate in a delirious, drunken frenzy, scrapping the idea of bringing back an older skate. He had briefly considered asking Yuuri to join him in a pair skate, to use it as the opportunity to show the world his love. How could he tell the world about _their_ love if he hadn’t even told Yuuri about _his_ love?

Instead, he choked. 

He couldn’t keep Yuuri. He didn’t have the balls to just tell him how he fucking felt. And he couldn’t reach him. Yuuri been declining his calls, ignoring his texts since that night, since the panic attack. Yuuri had left his gifts in a box with Chris and left Barcelona without staying for the banquet or the exhibition. 

Yuuri retired. 

And with a fifth of shitty vodka on the barrier, Viktor choreographed a new program, the song on repeat in his ears. The lonely cries of a broken man. The music matched the ache, the soul-deep bruising ache. He fell more times than he’d like to admit that night, his legs burned with pain that mirrored that in his chest. He flung the damned medal so hard into the barrier that it cracked the hard plastic. He screamed, hands clutched at the sweater that still somehow smelled like him. 

He remembered the rings he’d commissioned in hopes of... of what? Exactly? That Yuuri would leap into his arms and they'd live happily ever after? _God, what a fucking pipe dream._

He'd gotten the voicemail that morning. Two golden rings with matching tiny snowflakes engraved in the bands were currently being shipped to Saint Petersburg.

…

When Yuuri landed in Fukuoka, the ugly swell of thoughts reemerged of their last night, the night he’d met him here. The bleached leather seats and strangely sterile carpet burned in his nose. He pulled the black mask up higher on his cheeks, tugging the old beanie over his ears. His mother met him outside, pulling him in for a crushing hug and he felt her tears against his skin.

“ _I won, okaasan_.” He whispered, chin trembling.

“ _But at what cost, Yuu-chan_?” She replied in a broken voice. He recoiled, pulling away from the touch. 

“ _I gave everything_.” He said, head down. He followed her to the taxi waiting for them outside the terminal wordlessly.

Jet lag took him painlessly, collapsing in his bed and keeping him there for what Yuuri hoped was eternity, deep and black and dreamless. He woke in the dark of what was probably the next morning, or the next night. He didn’t remember. Everything felt inexplicably surreal and different, like a fever dream. His clock said **02:23**. 

He was restless, the call under his skin too great to ignore. He got dressed and found his way back to Ice Castle. Just to work out the frustration. He didn’t have his outlet anymore. He turned his phone on for the first time in a week, putting it on silent while the notifications rolled through.

He knew there would be at least a few last messages from Viktor. He should just block him. That might make it easier. He turned the key in the door and pulled it open, locking it tight behind him. He didn’t need people seeing this.

He welcomed his skates like an extension of his body. 

Maybe he could work there, at Ice Castle with Yuuko and Takeshi and the girls. 

He took a few laps, slow, languid loops to stretch his legs again and chanced opening his phone, the notifications finally stopping. There were the usual check-ins from Phichit. He sent back a confirmation that he wasn’t dead. The Instagram, Twitter and other social media mentions were swiped away. 

The texts from Viktor. Deleted.

But a text from Mari caught his eye. She had been there, in Barcelona.

_**Mari** (sent 17:45) yo. did you see nikiforov’s exhib?_  
_**Mari** (sent 17:45) bit.ly/h9nkksf_

Yuuri clicked through, despite every instinct screaming _no_. 

The song was tinny and echoing through his phone speaker, but he recognized it. Viktor, wearing a costume that made him look like a survivor of some sort of accident, the gray of his jacket torn in several places, his usually perfectly coiffed silver hair disheveled and his skin marred by smears of dirt. His tie was loose, the top few buttons left open. The video zoomed in on his opening position, two hands kissing palms at his lips, eyes closed. Yuuri saw the tiniest clench of his jaw and his eyes flew open, the pale coloring of the video a far cry from the gorgeous blue-green he had known.

The program began with long, slow strokes of his golden skates across the ice, his eyes searching as though he was looking for someone. To the world, he was in character for the program. Yuuri knew that wasn’t entirely the case. Viktor’s movements were long and fluid, flowing with the mournful tone of the song. Yuuri watched with rapt attention as Viktor flew through spins and jump combinations that were achingly familiar, the ones he had been using for his original free. 

The lyrics of the song plucked Yuuri’s heartstrings to snapping as he fell to his knees on the ice.

_I'm not ready to die, not yet_  
_Pull me out the train wreck_

If his new choreographed Free was Yuuri’s _‘goodbye’_ , this was Viktor’s _‘please don’t go’_. His confession. The video ended with Viktor on his knees, reaching across the ice, cameras slowly panning to the direction he was reaching. 

Open stadium doors, snow swirling in the dark Barcelona night.

Yuuri didn’t notice the tears rolling down his face until he saw his own reflection in the black mirror of his cell phone. The darkness curled into his veins again, panic gripping his throat.

_What have I done?_

…

**The Golden End of a Promising Career- Katsuki Yuuri Goes into Retirement at 24**

After coming back from a disastrous end to the 2015 season, Katsuki Yuuri wrapped up a flawless season at the Grand Prix Final, taking home his first and only gold on the world's stage. Immediately after the medal ceremony, Katsuki held a brief press conference without his coach, informing the media that he was entering retirement, effective immediately, having finally reached his ‘previously thought unattainable goal’, and did not take any questions. This possibly alludes to the fact that he had finally stolen the crown from Russia's Living Legend, Viktor Nikiforov, after chasing his heels for years.

Nikiforov has been unavailable for comment since the GPF wrapped up, his coaches assuring the media and the public that he is training hard for Worlds and the Russian Nationals in the future. 

Rumors have been circulating about a video released the day after the closing ceremonies of the Grand Prix Final in Barcelona, of Katsuki skating Nikiforov's Stammi Vicino program from the 2015 season. The leaked security footage from Katsuki’s home rink in Hasetsu, Japan has caused quite a stir in the small seaside town. Both Katsuki and Nishigori Takeshi, the rink’s owner and proprietor have declined interviews with all press sources, and have been unavailable for comment… _(read more)_

**Watch Video: Katsuki Yuuri skates Viktor Nikiforov's Stammi Vicino Program**

**Future_Mrs_Nikiforov** oh my god, what? WHAT?!  
 **wannabe-makkachin** wow, what a gracious winner. rubbing Viktor's face in it. god, katsuki's such a dick  
 **katsudamn** YEAH YOU SHOW THAT ASSHOLE BABY YOU DESERVE THAT GOLD  
 **viktor-steponme** @katsudamn fuck off, it was a fluke and you know it. he'll never gold again after this. just you fucking watch. he'll choke again like in sochi.  
 **katsudamn** @viktor-steponme HE RETIRED YOU ASSWIPE  
 **viktor-steponme** @katsudamn good. He was a waste of space on the ice anyway.  
 _view 7 more comments in this thread_  
 **IceIceBaby** why does he look so sad? he just toppled an empire…  
 **chris-is-baby** … I'm not the only one seeing the connections, right? there's something between Nikiforov and Katsuki. There has to be.  
 **eattherich** @chris-is-baby No, I see it too…  
 **chris-is-baby** @eattherich RIGHT?!?!?  
 **viktuuri-forever** I fucking knew it. All of you laughed. But I was fucking right. 

**Author's Note:**

> So, uh, that's possibly the angstiest/saddest thing I've ever written.  
> I needed to take a few breaks here and there. 
> 
> Drop a kudos if you liked this! (or if you hate me now because of the angst, I totally understand) Scream at me in the comments! I like to hang out there and talk! <3
> 
> Thanks for reading!
> 
> ❤️ IA ❤️  
> [Tumblr](https://incandescentantelope.tumblr.com) | [ Twitter](https://twitter.com/IAtheAuthor)


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